Tag / douchebag

At least one of the telemarketers, excuse me, consumer solutions experts that works for the Detroit News is a rude asshole.

SOME BACKGROUND
In June, a kid came by selling short-term (60-day) subscriptions that would help him through college. We decided to help him out and paid him by check so that the paper would end after two months. It didn’t. They kept sending it and we let it pile up.

I finally called them and had one of the rudest, most condescending conversations ever. She told me that subscriptions automatically renew without the need for me to approve them. I told her that I specifically paid by check because the college kid told me that the subscription can’t renew if they don’t have my payment information.

HER: “I can’t help it if you make decisions that you later regret.”ME: “Helping a kid out? Sue me.”HER: “I’ll cancel your delivery, but you owe us $18 for delivery.”ME: “Good luck collecting it. I never authorized it.”HER: “I think we’re done talking now. Goodbye.”

You see, I am what is referred to in the vernacular as a douchebag and that moniker comes with responsibility and a certain sense of entitlement.

It comes with a sense of knowing. Not in the educational sense—I cheated to become a Phoenix. What I mean is knowing your place in the Universe. And mine is parking a big-ass Hummer wherever I damn well please.

In my world, a Hummer equates to respect. It means I have power that compensates for my hopelessly commonplace 4.75″schlong. It makes up for my premature hair-loss and my inability to converse with other humans without needing something to prove. It means the when I attempt to demean coworkers who are taller than me, they know I mean business. It means people know me.

No one knows your name at the local Hooters, do they? I bet they don’t even know you at the Faggot, I mean, Target store where you get those baskets full of dried grapevines rolled into balls. Just what the Hell are those damn things for? You don’t play with them. It’s not like they’re art like the Nagel prints in my hallway. You must own a cat.

Not me. I have a GD Rottweiler. I’m not even sure if I can spell Rottweiler, but that’s the beauty of it. The German language is scary and gets respect. German dogs? Twice as scary. Twice the respect. I know. I see lesser mortals giving me a wide berth when I do donuts on the cul-de-sac of a quiet, rich suburb with my beast in tow.

What’s that? Why do I need to take up two spaces when my Hummer will clearly fit in one? You’re stupider than you look. Taking up one parking space means you won’t notice me. And I have to stand out. I’m 4″ shorter than most fourteen year-old girls and twice as awkward.

I work as an engineer designing windshield wipers. Sexy. We’re the bottom feeders as far as engineers go. Had I actually studied, I might have a career with actual respect, like a powertrain engineer or aerodynamics.

But no, it’s wipers and that means I have a lot of pent-up anger issues and a life of mediocrity.

People who change their profile photo to reflect the latest meme, social cause or trend with no clue why other than their friends are all doing it, too.

[DISCLAIMER: This one is probably only a Michigan thing] Drivers who get into the Michigan turn lane diagonally, thus taking up both lanes and refuse to pull out into traffic, even after a vicious, sustained honk.

While, not a person, Punxsutawney Phil, who needs to be made into a rug. That useless, pus-bag has never predicted spring correctly. Ever. And don’t correct me in the comments. He sucks. If I could make a movie, it would be called Kill Phil and Uma Thurman would take out Phil and all his kin in a deliberate and most brutal fashion.

People who leave their outdoor Christmas decorations up through the spring and summer—and continue to light them up nightly.